Can't Change It
by Val-Creative
Summary: Silence isn't what he needs. Kon-el wanders down into the subway station, entering the nearest set of doors. Doesn't matter where they're all going. He just need to drown out his thoughts. (In which Kon-el worries about Tim getting severely injured and hospitalized.) /DC Comics. Timkon. Oneshot.


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Silence isn't what he needs. Kon-el wanders down into the subway station, entering the nearest set of doors. Doesn't matter where they're all going. He just need to drown out his thoughts.

He's wearing a pair of tattered, blue jeans and his form-fitting black tee inside-out. To conceal the bright red insignia for once. Usually, Kon-el would _escape_ traffic and people, drifting along the clouds, or gladly welcome the attention from ordinary citizens begging for a photo or wanting to hug him.

Right now, Kon-el avoids the homeless man petting his cat on the far end of the car, and the teenage girl with earphones and a lip-ring, and the twelve or so young adults chanting and stomping and painted in their neon-bright school colors on their faces. He flops backwards onto an empty twin-seat attached to the wall, hitching his legs over it carelessly. Shutting his eyes helps him focus.

Their pounding, erratic footsteps. Heartbeats. The gears of the subway car whirring, cranking—

— _groaning, Tim's lips dripping fresh blood as he crawls on his belly to Rose's unconscious form, determined and in agony, one of his whiteout, prototype eyelets shattered beyond repair—_

Kon-el grits his teeth, pressing his bare hands over his nose and mouth, trying to keep from—

— _screaming, louder and louder, when Deathstroke fires a bullet into Tim's kidney—_

The back of his fist suddenly rushes out, hitting the subway's glass and denting it into a crusted, icy spiderweb-effect. Kon-el's knuckles barely throbbing. He straightens up as the chants and joyful, laughing voices erupt into alarmed gasps and whispers, hovering out when the double-doors woosh open.

His TK instinctively keeps him weightless, floating up above the violet-glowing highways, its cars tinged with bluish, erratic-fast headlights. The skyscapers blacked out, gleaming like diamond-water.

He knows what he needs.

Kon-el arches himself mid-air, scolding himself quietly before taking off.

Gotham General has too many entrances and levels, and after pinpointing Tim's very distinct heart-rhythm, he reconsiders his following move. _Barging in without permission?_ Kon-el pries apart the window-lock with a faint thunk!, sliding the panel of bulletproof glass open. _Hell yeah._

The only source of light is the dim, solitary headboard light. Right over Tim's head. He's bandaged up around the right side of his temple, as well as his left, upper arm and his midsection.

" _Hey, Clone Boy…_ "

Kon-el startles, dropping the knockoff Hallmark card from M'gann, noticing Tim's eyes fluttering open but going half-mast, observing him. "Hey," he whispers, approaching the hospital bed and gazing down on the other, deeply exhausted man. "Surprised that Bats didn't order you to recover in the Cave."

" _Mmhn… he wanted to…_ " Tim answers, no more than a murmur. His lips pink-swollen and chapped. Kon licks his own mouth impulsively, scrubbing his palm over his chin and jaw. What does he _say_?

"Tim—"

"— _ss'good hospital, Kon. Really good and big…_ " He pauses, growing more and more confused as Tim remains lying on the sheets, grinning weakly, absently up at Kon-el. " _Like you._ "

Oh.

Kon-el glances over the medical equipment and vials and needles hooked into Tim's wrists. Oh, right. There's a reason for the drowsiness and slurring and half-emotional confessions. "I'm gonna take that as a compliment, even though you are one hundred percent _high_ off your ass," Kon-el points out smugly. He folds his arms, and unfolds them, sitting down when Tim's uninjured arm reaches for him.

" _Missed you… too…_ "

He envelopes himself in the scent of _Tim_ beneath the overpowering morphine and sterilized, powdery gown, bending over to kiss his mouth, sighing out lowly, _euphorically_ , when Tim's fingers push gently through Kon-el's short-cropped dark hair. Kon-el cradles a hand steadily to the side of Tim's face, thumbing over his cheekbone, memorized in his heat and presence and kissing him harder.

" _Nnh_ —" Kon-el moans out, backing off when Tim's same hand ends up lowering to his inner thigh, cupping where Kon-el's dick pulses and stiffens obviously against his jeans. _Shit_.

"You keep those no-good paws to yourself, mister man," Kon-el says, adopting a high-pitched voice and imitating a frown. It's so _fucking_ good to see Tim laugh. Right up until it dissolves into body-wrecking coughs, and Kon-el shushes him, panicking a little. He cups Tim's forehead, apologizing over and over, to only himself, and over, over, mouthing it as his best friend passes out into a dreamless sleep.

It's all he can do after nearly losing Tim. Again. And again, again and _again_.

Kon-el's fingers brush over his hidden, red insignia, tightening down.

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 _DC Comics isn't mine. THROWS CONFETTI IM BACK BEECHES it's time to rock n roll I got some more goodies! This time for the DC Secret Santa 2018! I was assigned to kid-crashed on Tumblr who wanted a couple thing but I love Timkon so there's that dfskjhfjhd hey let me know if you liked this! Thank you so much! :)  
_


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